


Shining Eyes

by thereigatesquire



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Brief Violence, Despair, Disability, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-21
Updated: 2020-03-22
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:02:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23246728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thereigatesquire/pseuds/thereigatesquire
Summary: “Something in his tone caught my ear, and I turned to look at him. An extraordinary change had come over his face. It was writhing with inward merriment. His two eyes were shining like stars.”--The Return of Sherlock Holmes: The Adventure of the Norwood Builder (Sir Arthur Conan Doyle)After a case gone wrong, can Sherlock Holmes continue to be the Great Detective he once was? Or will he stay trapped in his own mind? (AU, but attempts at justification)
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson
Kudos: 5





	1. Intro

**Author's Note:**

> It's an AU, but I've attempted to justify it within the context of the original ACD stories.

“Something in his tone caught my ear, and I turned to look at him. An extraordinary change had come over his face. It was writhing with inward merriment. His two eyes were shining like stars.”  
\--The Return of Sherlock Holmes: The Adventure of the Norwood Builder (Sir Arthur Conan Doyle)  
“Our months of partnership had not been so uneventful as he had stated, for I find, on looking over my notes, that this period includes the case of the papers of ex-President Murillo, and also the shocking affair of the Dutch steamship FRIESLAND, which so nearly cost us both our lives.”  
\--The Return of Sherlock Holmes: The Adventure of the Norwood Builder (Sir Arthur Conan Doyle)  
“...he bound me in the most stringent terms to say no further word of himself, his methods, or his successes -- a prohibition which, as I have explained, has only now been removed.”  
\--The Return of Sherlock Holmes: The Adventure of the Norwood Builder (Sir Arthur Conan Doyle)

Darkness.

Stifling, oppressive darkness.

It surrounded him. Crashing in, wave after wave, thought after thought, indistinctly flitting at the edges of his mind. Nothing was clear, logical. A tornado roared inside of him. He had to get out. He had to escape, to distract himself from his confused and over-excited mind. But he could not. He could not. He could n—“

“My dear Holmes! I beg of you, please calm down!”  
Sherlock Holmes felt a gentle touch on his tense forearm. He tried to release the pressure in his shoulders and took a deep, rattling breath.  
“I-I am sorry, Watson,” he said unsteadily. “Forgive me for my outburst.”  
“There is no need to apologize, my good man. I cannot fathom how much you must be suffering. You have every right to act however you wish. I just am worried about you, is all.”  
Holmes tried to give a small smile in what he thought was his friend’s direction. “Thank you, Watson.” Holmes stood up slowly and rather uncertainly. “I am simply stuck in my own mind, with nothing to occupy me. Come, let us go out. I believe it is time.”  
“Are you sure?” he heard Watson ask worriedly.  
“Yes, exceedingly,” Holmes replied, grasping for the cane he thought he had left beside the settee. He found it and swept it in front of him as he made his way to the door of 221B. He heard Watson walk quickly to open the door.  
“Here, take my arm,” the good Doctor said. Holmes reached out and lightly rested a long, thin hand on the Doctor’s forearm. Together, they made their way down the 17 steps.

Lestrade filtered in and out of Baker Street regularly in those terrible, early days. He brought cases he thought were easy, armchair-conundrums to appease the Once-Great Detective. Some of them transpired to be so. Lamentably, many of them contained some outré impediments that Lestrade had missed that would require a visit to the crime scene. When Lestrade presented a puzzle like this, Holmes would tense, infuriated, then curl into himself in a defeated, despondent manner. Once this happened, Watson would cast a pitying look at Lestrade and show him to the door.

One day, after another unsuccessful attempt at engaging the detective, Watson joined Lestrade in walking out the door. They paused to talk on the cobblestones outside of 221B.  
“I am at a loss, Lestrade,” Watson began. “I know Holmes cannot last long in this state. It is tearing him apart! He hasn’t ate nor drank in three days.”  
“I understand, Doctor,” Lestrade replied somberly. “This has to be unimaginably difficult for him.” He was suddenly seized with a righteous anger. “But why, of everything that could have happened, why did he have to lose his sight?”


	2. The Shocking Affair of the Dutch Steamship Friesland

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The case gone wrong. An account from the journal of John H. Watson, M.D.

The Shocking Affair of the Dutch Steamship Friesland  
Being a Reprint from the Reminiscences of John H. Watson, M.D.  
\--TO BE WITHHELD FROM PUBLISHING--

This case can never see the light of day, but I simply had to put into words the terrible events that resulted in our current situation. The case started off like any of the others Holmes and I had been engaged upon: in 221B Baker Street.  
Late one evening, not long after we had finished aiding Ex-President Murillo, a knock sounded from the front door. It being so late, I went to let the caller in, in the stead of Mrs. Hudson. I was greeted by Inspector Lestrade. I showed him up, and we exchanged all the necessary greetings.  
Holmes interrupted Lestrade and I, his keen grey eyes flashing. “Lestrade, do get on with telling us about your water-based problem. It must be troublesome to have taken you out of the city.”  
Lestrade startled slightly. “Holmes, I understand I should expect you to know these things, but I am at a loss as to how you deduce them every time!”  
Holmes sighed. “It’s very simple, you just cannot reason logically. First, look at your shoes. They’re simply covered with mud. That level of soiling only comes from extremely wet circumstances, and it hasn’t been raining much lately. Therefore, you’ve been near water. Second, have you forgotten my detailed knowledge of London’s soils? You’ve provided me with an extremely large sample size, and I still cannot recognize it. Therefore, it must belong outside of the city.”  
“Well, that is simple, isn’t it?” Lestrade said once Holmes had finished.  
Holmes gave a pointed look in my direction. “What did I say, Watson? I should stop explaining myself, it takes the mystery out of my methods. Anyway, pray proceed, Lestrade.”  
“Well, I’m here about the Dutch Steamship Friesland.”  
“You mean the one that’s been in the papers?” I asked.  
“Yes,” answered Lestrade. “It’s been missing for over a week now, and we haven’t a clue where it is.”  
Holmes interceded. “I thought that was a hoax, was it not?”  
“No, it’s real enough. Just yesterday we dredged up the body of the captain, John Slater.”  
“Well, if this is a real case that is to be taken seriously, you should start at the beginning,” Holmes said.  
Lestrade took a breath. “A week ago today, two men approached James Bland, the owner of a ship-chartering company based in Bensington. One was a Frenchman of South American descent named Monsieur Louis Caratal, and the other was his companion, Gomez. Caratal seemed to be a incredible hurry. He asked that a river-based steamship be commandeered at once to London. The only free ship was the small Friesland, captained by John Slater. Soon enough, the Friesland set off, with just five people aboard: the two customers, the captain, the guard, who was named James McPherson, and the stoker, who was called Smith. That’s when things went south. After passing a few small towns along the Thames, the Friesland simply vanished.”  
Holmes scowled. “Now stop being dramatic, Lestrade. There’s got to be more to it than that. Steamships cannot simply ‘vanish.’”  
“But the Friesland did. It checked in at Collins Green, Earlstown, Newton, and Kenyon, but it never arrived at Barton Moss.”  
“Then something must have happened to it between Kenyon and Barton Green. What have you found between those two towns?”  
“We dredged the Thames in that area, but we found nothing, besides the body of John Slater. There was no sign of the ship. There are twelve small streams branching off of the Thames between the two towns, but they are much too small to accommodate the Friesland. Besides those twelve though, there are four larger rivers that run close to the Thames but unfortunately don’t connect to it, and three larger tributaries that branch off the Thames. We’ve focused our efforts on the latter group. The Carnstock Waterway was blocked all that day by other ships, the Ben Canal is less than a quarter of a mile long and just tapers out. Finally, the Perseverance Tributary is large and long, but it is also very busy, and someone would have noticed a steamship sail down it.”  
“So you’ve ruled out all of your options?” I asked.  
“It appears that way,” Lestrade replied. “What do you think, Holmes? Can you help us?”  
“Well, it does present some intriguing details. Yes, I think I will. Get a good night’s sleep, Lestrade, and we’ll go out to examine the scene early to-morrow.”  
Lestade left, and Holmes reached for his black, briar pipe, and the Persian slipper upon the mantle. He lit the pipe and sank into pensive thought. After it became clear he would remain this way for quite some time, I retreated to bed.

I awoke early the next morning to find Holmes already dressed. He was pacing the room, still in thought, though in a much more blithe mood than he was yesterday.  
“Good morning, Watson,” he greeted once he saw me. “The train to Kenyon leaves in one hour.”  
I quickly break-fasted and dressed. We caught a hansom and made it to the train station. Once we boarded, Holmes started expounding on his views of the mystery.  
“I thought I had reasoned it all out last night,” he began. “I thought the only possible routes the Friesland could have taken were the three large connecting tributaries that Lestrade investigated. I concluded that it was most likely some dockgroup had completely dismantled the Friesland and sold its parts, or something along those lines. However, I realize now that I discounted another possibility too early: the four large but disconnected rivers. We’ll discover when we arrive which theory proves to be the truth.”

Once we arrived, we met Lestrade by the River Thames. “I examined the local pawnbrokers like you asked, Holmes,” Lestade said. “They had no parts sold to them.”  
“Ah,” mused Holmes. “Then it’s off to the four isolated rivers.”  
We made our way to the Redgauntlet River, the Hero Channel, and the Despond Tributary. Each, in turn, proved to show no signs of the lost steamship. For one, they were, as I have stated previously, completely cut off from the Thames. They were close by at times, but they ran parallel to the river, so it was unfathomable that a ship could switch from one body of water to the other.  
We investigated the Heartsease Watercourse last. As we approached, Holmes’ excitement tangibly increased. We stopped at the point where the two waterways came the closest together.  
“Do you understand how they did it now, Lestrade?” Holmes queried.  
“Understand what? I’m rather in the dark still.”  
“Me too, my good man,” I added.  
Holmes walked a couple of meters away from us. “Watch,” he said. He then proceeded to spring up and land forcefully on the ground. To my and Lestrade’s amazement, the grass and plants on the land near him seemed to violently quake up and down with his jumps. “There is water underneath us,” Holmes explained. “The boat thieves must have dug a small connection between the Thames and the Heartsease Watercourse before departing, then diverted the steamship through it into the Heartsease. They tried to cover their steps, and did so rather skillfully. They decided to lay down reeds and cover that with a layer of soil and quick growing weeds. That’s why the land moves so oddly. They must not have had enough time to fill the connection in completely with dirt.”  
Lestrade was astonished. “This had to have taken weeks of planning!”  
“Yes,” Holmes replied. “Which is exactly why Caratal and Gomez are innocent.”  
“What?” Lestrade cried. “But they were the most suspicious of the people aboard!”  
“Yes, but you stated earlier that Caratal arrived in worried rush, demanding an immediate boat. How was he to know the only one available would be small and narrow enough to fit through the connection he had dug? Also, being nervous and hurried would only draw attention to his suspicious activity. No, I don’t believe Caratal, and by extension Gomez, to be the criminals in this scenario.”  
“Then where are they? Why haven’t they explained what happened?” I asked.  
“I do not know,” said Holmes. “But I fear the worst.”

We continued to walk along the Heartsease Watercourse. After many hours, we finally stumbled upon something of note. Up ahead, the Watercourse seemed to flow into some sort of cave feature, or what remained of it anyway. Almost all of it had collapsed into a large pile of boulders and rubble, with some fragments of a steamship thrown in.  
“Ah,” exclaimed Holmes somberly. “So ends our trail. The perpetrators, who must have been Smith, the stoker, and James McPherson, the guard, probably set the ship to full force and sent it into the cave, either going down with their targets or abandoning ship right before. From the extent of the damage, I’d say explosives were involved as well.”  
“Well,” Lestrade said. “At least I can report back to Scotland Yard that we’ve concluded this mystery.”  
“Yes,” said Holmes slowly, in an oddly-pitched voice. “You should go do that.”   
Lestrade did not seem to notice his tone. “Well, then. I’ll be off. Thank you for your help, Holmes.”  
“Oh, yes. This problem was rather below the standard of my usual work, though. Make sure my name makes no appearance in connection with the case.”  
Lestrade tipped his hat and left to find a way back to London.  
Once he was gone, Holmes turned to me abruptly. “Lestrade was wrong, Watson. This mystery is far from over.” He turned and started to stride away, towards the nearest small town.  
“What do you mean, Holmes? Did you not just say that Smith and McPherson were the perpetrators?” I asked, trotting to catch up with him.  
“I meant they were the ones who sent the ship into the cave, but they were not the masterminds behind this affair. You see, unlike Lestrade, I am rather well-versed in criminal history, and I recognized the name Caratal. He was a — oh what do the Americans call them? A muckraker, more or less, who caused havoc in the French government. He must been heading to London with urgent evidence exposing members of our bureaucracy. Now, I have previously discussed who I believe to be the smartest and most dangerous men in London. Moran, John Clay, Charles Augustus Milverton, obviously the late Moriarty. However, I have never mentioned Herbert de Lernac, whom I believe to belong in that list as well. He holds a high position in our government, as the liaison with the French, and he is the only one I can think of who is smart and desperate enough to execute this disappearing act.”  
“Why did you not disclose this to Lestrade?” I asked.  
“Because,” said Holmes sharply, “while Lestrade is competent enough, Scotland Yard is still full of miserable bunglers. In addition, this man we are about to pursue is incredibly dangerous, and I do not believe Scotland Yard equipped to deal with him.”

We boarded a train in a nearby town and rode back to London. It was dark by now and a thick fog had rolled in, however Holmes insisted on approaching this man tonight. “Once he reads in the paper how the case has progressed, he may guess that someone is on to him,” he explained.  
We took a hansom through London until we arrived in front of a very opulent club, called the Moorehood. Holmes and I entered and found the proprietor. “Excuse me,” said Holmes, affecting an extremely proper accent. “I have urgent need of a member of yours. His name is Herbert de Lernac. Just inform him that James McPherson is waiting for him outside.” With that, we turned and exited the building. Soon enough, a tall, solidly-built man wearing grandiose apparel exited the building. He was looking down, adjusting his cravat. Once he looked up, however, a note of alarm passed over his countenance, and he bolted.  
“After him!” Holmes shouted, and we chased after him. My partner may have been a tall, athletic man, but so was de Lernac, and the chase proceeded for many blocks, around countless turns and down multiple alleys. At one point, I tripped over a raised cobblestone, and fell. Holmes seemed not to notice and continued ahead. By the time I gained my feet, he was out of sight. I trotted forward, unsure of where to go, when I heard a cry of pain from nearby. I followed it, and found my friend in a physical altercation with a young ruffian who was sporting a bruised eye, down an alley. I ran towards them to help, but at that moment, I was knocked over from behind. Holmes looked away from his attacker when I made a sound, and he too was tackled as a result. We were swiftly restrained, yanked to a standing position, and led into a nearby warehouse.

We were greeted by Herbert de Lernac, waiting with a smug expression on his face. “So, gentlemen,” he said suavely, with a slight French accent. “To be pursued by ze great Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson. Eet’s been an honor.”  
I sputtered at his recognition of us.  
“Oh please,” he responded. “Between your stories, Dr. Watson, and Mr. Paget’s excellent illustrations, you can ‘ardly expect to remain anonymous.” He then directed his attention towards my companion. “So, Mr. Holmes. Now I need you to tell me how you found out I was connected to ze disappearance of Monsieur Louis Caratal.”  
“So you admit it!” I exclaimed.  
Our host said nothing. Neither did Holmes.  
“Very well,” le Lernac said “Then we will make you talk.” He gave a slight nod to the ruffian standing beside Holmes. The blackguard gave a forceful blow to Holmes abdomen. I cried out in alarm, but Holmes merely doubled over without a sound escaping his lips. Once he collected himself, he merely stared fiercely at le Lernac, his silver eyes sharpened to daggers.  
“Well?” le Lernac asked, pausing to hear if Holmes answered. When it was clear Holmes was not going to say anything, he continued, “Still going to be reticent? No matter, I have plenty of time.”  
He gestured again, and the ruffian repeated his violent action. I made a move to seize my revolver, but Holmes, still wincing, shook his head slightly in my direction.  
This terrible interrogation proceeded for what felt like an endless amount of time. Each time, Holmes met their attempts with silent defiance, while motioning to me to stay still. That is, until the already-dreadful situation took a turn for the worse.  
“That’s enough!” le Lernac finally commanded after yet another unsuccessful attempt. “If he reelly is not going to talk, we have no use of heem.” He smiled an unpleasant smile as he turned to me. “We’ll simply ask the good Doctor.”  
Holmes, battered though he was, reacted strongly to this. “No!” he shouted, lunging away from his assailant, but he never made it to le Lernac. The ruffian swung an empty bottle he had picked up off the floor right into the back of Holmes’ head. With a heart-wrenching cry, he fell to the floor, unconscious.   
All I can remember is an overwhelming feeling of horror and alarm as I swiftly seized my revolver, aimed it at Herbert de Lernac, and fired. The two ruffians swiftly ran off once their boss was felled, but I had no thoughts to spare for them. I ran to my friend’s side.  
“Holmes!” I shouted, shaking him gently. I checked his pulse, and breathed a sigh of relief when I found a steady pulse. However, he still did not wake. After waiting a few more minutes in vain, I risked leaving his side. I rushed outside the warehouse and started shouting for help. A few minutes later, two constables came running towards me. I rapidly explained the situation and told one of them to send Lestrade to St. Bart’s. The other hailed a hansom, and he, the cabbie, and I carefully transferred the still-unconscious Holmes into the carriage. I joined him and we raced off to St. Bart’s, the constable left to deal with the body of the abominable de Lernac.

Lestrade met me just as the doctors finished settling the limp, battered Holmes into a hospital gurney. “What happened?” he gasped. I quickly explained what had transpired since he left us near the Heartsease Watercourse. “The bastard!” he roared, gesturing at Holmes’ prostrated form. “Why does he insist on doing these things without telling me!” He took another look at Holmes, all covered with blood from the punches and glass cuts, and said in a much quieter, worried voice, “Why didn’t he tell me?” I too was having my own misgivings and prayed that Holmes wouldn’t die in the very place we had first met, all those years ago.

Blessedly, a short while later, the doctors returned to us and said that Sherlock Holmes did not appear to be in danger of dying. They also said that they were very busy, and that we needed to deal with Holmes outside of the hospital because they had many more patients to attend to. Lestrade and I lifted my poor friend into yet another cab and headed back to Baker Street.  
We laid the rather-emaciated man upon the settee, and waited. I have previously mentioned the long vigils associated with the cases of Mr. Jabez Wilson and Ms. Helen Stoner, but those were mere seconds compared to this. Oh! the apprehension! Finally, after some hours that felt like days, the man stirred.  
Sherlock Holmes blinked peculiarly, then sat up tentatively and rubbed his eyes, gently at first, then harder, as he started to move his head around frantically. “Watson?” he called out. “Watson! Are you there?”  
“I am right here, Holmes” I said bemusedly, kneeling down beside the settee and sharing a confused look with Lestrade.  
Holmes jumped and whirled his head in my direction when I spoke. “Where are we? Why is it so dark?”


	3. Conclusion

For Sherlock Holmes, losing the power of sight was most likely the worst occurrence that could have come to pass, second only, perhaps, to losing his great mind. Then again, perhaps not, because now his mind would most likely be the death of him, it being imprisoned as it was with no outlet. Lestrade and Watson tried their best to aid him, but their efforts were no match for the terrible ferocity of his brain, and he knew he could not continue on like this for much longer.

That is, until his dear Doctor saved him. One day, when he was in the grip of the blackest depression, and he knew it not to be long before he left this miserable plane of existence, the Doctor approached his bedside. “Holmes,” he said simply. “Come along, we’ll be late.”  
“Late for what?” Holmes croaked.  
Watson started flitting around, preparing to set out. “Lestrade has a new case for us. Something about a young lawyer and a murdered builder out in Norwood. The young lawyer came running into his office this morning begging him not to arrest him before he could explain himself. Lestrade says the case seems right up your alley.”  
“Oh, I cannot help Lestrade, Watson. I am of no use to him.”  
“On the contrary, my fellow, Lestrade thinks you will be of enormous help, and he wants you to journey to the crime scene in Norwood.”  
“Watson,” Holmes moaned, “Have you forgotten that I cannot even see? What use does Lestrade have of me when I cannot view the evidence?”  
“Oh, calm yourself, old chap. Lestrade did not ask for your eyes, merely your brain. I trust that is still in working order. Besides,” Watson said, pausing his bustling to stare at Holmes kindly, “I can be your eyes.”  
Holmes paused his sorrowful brooding for a moment. He adopted a pensive expression, then apparently made up his mind and stood up quickly, seizing his walking stick from beside his bed. “You know, Watson,” he said, “I believe you can continue your little written collection of our adventures yet. Yes, let us go view this Norwood mystery.” Arm-in-arm, Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson departed to shed light in a dark world once again.

\- - - - - - - - -

Being an Excerpt from the Diary of John H. Watson, M.D.

It is with great joy that I am able to pen more of our adventures. The case I just set to paper, which I decided to call “The Adventure of the Norwood Builder,” was solved successfully by Holmes, even despite his lack of vision. Our system was faultless. I would tell him what I observed, then he would press me for details, of which there were inevitably more. Sometimes, he even told me what to look for, because he had expected to find something or other. If I wasn’t available, Lestrade would work with him. For the sake of his safety and privacy I omitted his newfound blindness from the written account of our adventures. What would happen if a surviving member of Moriarty’s empire discovered Holmes’ disability? I decided to just tell the story as if Holmes had seen the clues for himself, without my input as a middle step. Anyway, this is why I included the following the sentence in the “Norwood Builder,” in order to explain his short hiatus:  
“...he bound me in the most stringent terms to say no further word of himself, his methods, or his successes -- a prohibition which, as I have explained, has only now been removed.”  
I am elated that he pulled himself back from the brink, though he continues to credit me for his recovery. I hope for many more thrilling adventures to come. In fact, I think I hear a cab now, approaching with yet another lost soul needing the shining light of Sherlock Holmes.

\- - - - - - - - - -

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: all characters property of ACD


End file.
